Sanitarium
by Tolakasa
Summary: A case of mistaken identity gets Dean temporarily committed.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Don't own 'em.

* * *

**Sanitarium**

It could have been worse. After all, they had let him keep his amulet. And his ring. And his clothes, though there had been a very, ah, _tense_ moment when the nurse ever-so-politely explained the bath and laundry rules in a wary tone that meant if he didn't smell better next time she saw him, he'd get stripped and hosed down and his clothing all replaced with backless hospital gowns.

If the nurse had been twenty years younger and about a thousand degrees hotter, Dean _might_ have considered it.

There was a shiny plastic bracelet on his wrist now—bright, goddamned blaze orange. Most of the people in here had white ones, meaning that they'd come willingly.

Orange was "involuntary commit." Seventy-two hours. Minimum.

Sammy had better be taking care of his car.

Sammy had better be coming by as soon as visiting hours started.

Son of a _bitch_, he must be bored out of his mind if all he could think of was seeing Sam for 45 minutes. Sam was the reason he was in this mess. _We can try to fool the ghost, Dean. This should work, Dean. We can save him, Dean. Yeah, save _him _so well the cops think _I'm_ the suicidal nutjob and haul _me_ off to the hospital! I'm so killing his ass._

He prowled the halls restlessly when they said he could—which was nowhere near as much as he liked, and there were all these stupid "classes" to go to—code-speak for "group therapy session"—and at one point they gave him pictures to color. To _color!_ With _crayons!_ Like he was a fucking _six-year-old!_ And _decaffeinated everything!_ No junk food!

Well, okay, that wasn't so bad. The food was decent. Especially for a hospital.

But if he'd been the suicidal bastard the cops had mistaken him for, he would have hanged himself with a shoelace by now. Too quiet, for one thing. No music, no TV, no white noise, no nothing.

The other—hm—patients were a mixed lot, mostly annoying. Most seemed normal enough, but they were way too friendly. All hugs. A couple—well, a couple were more like what he'd expected when he'd woken up in the ER to find a too-friendly doctor explaining that they were keeping him for psychiatric observation. And a handful had either been here so long the social workers were wearing off on them, or they were here for overactive cheerfulness. What the hell was he supposed to be happy about?

The nurse who handed out medication was smarter than Dean gave her credit for. Within five minutes of him pretending to swallow the pills, he was surrounded by three more nurses with another set of pills and a bottle of water.

Some things, even a Winchester couldn't fight.

About thirty minutes later, he fell asleep. Luckily, he made it to the bed first.

"Dean?"

Dean forced his eyes open. There was a floppy-haired blur leaning over him. Visiting hours already? But — "Goddamn drugs," he muttered, trying to force his eyes to focus. Then he saw the grin on Sam's face, and wished he hadn't. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Sam wisely did not answer the taunt. "I brought you some more clothes," he offered instead, setting Dean's bag on the end of the bed. "The salt didn't make it."

"What the hell do they think I'm going to do with _salt?_"

"I believe," Sam said, with a perfectly straight face, "that they're afraid you're going to spike somebody's dinner."

"_Jesus._"

"Some of the other patients are on restricted diets."

"They think I'm going to go around salting other people's plates?"

"Something like." Sam shoved Dean's feet out of the way and sat down. "You scared the nice lady with the crayons," he said. That grin was there again.

"She told me to color."

"Did she tell you to add the big black knife stuck in Winnie-the-Pooh's chest? 'Cause she stopped me to express her concern."

Dean tried his very best not to whine. "_Please._ Get me the fuck out of here, Sam."

"Can't. I tried. You've got to convince them that you're not suicidal anymore—"

"I wasn't suicidal to begin with!"

"—and that there's nothing _else_ wrong with you."

"Oh, _fuck_."

"Yeah, I saw the problem with that too."

Dean glared at him. "Give me a reason, Sammy. Just one. I'm in a psych ward, I haven't had any caffeine, and I'm drugged."

"Sorry."

"If you were really sorry, you'd get me out of here." His eyes closed.

"Dean, are you okay?"

He didn't bother trying to open his eyes. "_Drugged_, Sammy. Did you miss that part?"

"What are they giving you?"

"I didn't ask." There was a muffled noise that, if his drowsy ears weren't mistaken, was Sam choking on a laugh. "Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean."

"Get off my feet." He kicked in Sam's general direction, then rolled to one side, pulled the blanket over his head, and went back to sleep.

In his dreams, he heard Sam laughing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Note:** Okay, so this wound up going in a slightly less-humorous direction. Sorry about that. I just _tell_ the stories, you know.

* * *

"Good morning, patients!"

Dean came out of bed with a yelp, waving his pillow like it was the knife he didn't have. His foot caught in the sheets and he fell hard against the nearest wall.

_Again_.

"It's six o'clock on Thursday," the too-cheery voice continued, issuing from the speaker above his bed. "All patients report to the nurses' station for vitals."

Dean rubbed his nose and threw every dirty word he knew at the speaker and the voice behind it. Why the hell they expected mental patients to be in any condition to be up and about at six in the goddamned morning—

He headed for the door, then remembered the clothing rules: always be fully dressed when in public areas. This place had more rules than high school. There was a way to get around this one, though; pull on a hospital gown backwards over his nightclothes, like a bathrobe. At six in the morning, the nurses didn't get picky.

He managed to be one of the first ones there, which meant he didn't have to stand around staring blearily at his fellow inmates. Blood pressure, temp, pulse, some real annoying questions, and he stumbled back to his room. There were three contraband bottles of Coke in one of the drawers. Sam had brought them in. Not coffee, but at least it was caffeine.

The meds he'd been given that first day had knocked him out for the better part of 24 hours, and left him too drowsy to remember his own name for the next 24, which meant that, while he was done with the required 72 hours, he had yet to prove to the shrinks that he wasn't suicidal. He was just damn lucky he and Sam had been working this job under their real first names, because he wouldn't have responded to anything else.

By the time they announced breakfast, he was awake and dressed. He could have gone into the common room and waited for the meal to be delivered, but frankly he didn't want to spend any more time than necessary around his neighbors. Not because they were crazy, but because they _weren't_.

Seriously, the freakiest thing about the psych ward? How _normal_ everybody was. Maybe it was because this was a short-term facility. He didn't know.

The weirdest one—well it was probably a tie between the guy who was always asleep in front of the TV (and after _his_ less-than-stellar introduction to the wonders of psych meds, Dean could empathize) or the two old ladies in for dementia. One could still walk; she was quiet and quietly confused, not at all what you'd expect from a little old lady who'd pulled a gun on her daughter, and a couple of the younger women had taken her under their wings. The other was in a wheelchair and told stories that made Dean's life seem normal. Even the therapists rolled their eyes when she started talking. (Yesterday she'd been convinced that the bruises on her arm from a botched IV were because the attendants were sneaking in and _pinching_ her all night.)

The rest... There was Girl-Chris—she, poor thing, had a boyfriend so far off the deep end that he'd tried to get himself committed just to come after her—and Boy-Chris. Samuel the diabetic, who was rather too worried that he never got sausage on his breakfast tray no matter how often he circled it on his menu slip. Louise the self-appointed ward-mother, who was in for a month of ECT and who made a point of welcoming newcomers and explaining to them how everything worked and which phone numbers to use to have family call without bugging the nurses. Emma—very nice, very outgoing, but a little overly concerned with the well-being of her terrier.

They were all friendly and talkative and normal. This was like a rest stop for them, a rest stop from life. None of them seemed at all perturbed at being here. Not even the other ones wearing orange bracelets.

It was _disturbing_.

Evening session was the worst. Everybody in the unit met then to discuss "issues," and rule number one? _No sarcasm_. They might as well have cut out his tongue.

He kept himself sane by concentrating on what he was going to do to Sam in vengeance for leaving him here. Oh, sure, _logically_ he understood that they'd draw a lot less attention with a few days of hospitalization than they would by trying to break out, which could get all kinds of authorities involved, but _emotionally_... He was in a _psych ward!_

Needless to say, when it was his turn, he mumbled his way through the "I'm Dean, I'm here for suicidal ideation, I have nothing to say tonight" ritual as quickly as he could without getting told off by the social worker.

He'd picked up the words "suicidal ideation" from Ghost Girl, another involuntary and the only conscious patient who spent even less time in the common room than _he_ did; she showed up for meals, meds, vitals and sessions, and disappeared back into her room. He'd thought she was a hospital worker of some sort until he saw her in the bleary line for morning vitals. She possibly thought less of therapists and social workers than even _Dean_ did—she hurled some serious ten-dollar words at them under her breath—and she had about the same tolerance for talking about her problems.

The only difference between him and her that he could see was that when she said she was in for suicidal ideation, she _meant_ it. Which kinda scared him, because the way she looked at the social workers? She wanted them _dead_. Mutilation optional.

Meanwhile, the other inmates were trying to get him to "open up," whatever _that_ was supposed to mean. Today during morning session, they decided to force the issue: one of them nominated him as the new Master of the Linen Closet, responsible for checking the stocks of sheets, pillows, towels, and blankets. And apparently a nomination was the same as being elected, because the perky blonde therapist wouldn't let him turn it down. God, he hated that woman. She wasn't normal. She was going to put him off perky blondes for months.

He muttered "Christo" at her as he fled the room (which was mild, considering that Ghost Girl had stalked out of the room speculating a bit _too_ loudly about the lack of forks in the woman's family tree). No reaction. That meant she wasn't possessed, just a godawful excuse for a human being, and he couldn't kill her. _Dammit_.

His shrink showed up around ten. Dean wasn't sure what these sessions were supposed to accomplish, as he wasn't even sure the shrink remembered his name. It wasn't therapy, that was for _damn_ sure, because he was lucky to see the guy for ten minutes. There were the usual questions about his nonexistent desire to kill himself. By the shrink's glassy eyes, Dean was resigned to spending another night here.

"Well, I think we can safely say you're past the crisis," the shrink said. "Do you have somebody who can come pick you up?"

Dean blinked. "You're letting me out?"

"You seem to be responding well to the fluoxetine, and you don't seem to be in any immediate danger. I'll set you up with the local mental health office; they can help you find a therapist, and a psychiatrist to help you manage your medications. There's no reason for you to stay here any longer." He consulted Dean's file. "I see you have a brother? Can he pick you up—say, around lunchtime? The paperwork will take a couple of hours."

* * *

Ah, fresh air and sunshine. Granted, right now Dean would have gladly accepted choking smog and pouring rain, if it meant he was free. He ripped off his bracelet before they even got past the spinning doors. The prescription in his pocket—well, that he could probably sell. Some people _liked_ Prozac, right? Hell, maybe he could feed it to Sam next time he got too angsty.

"The security guard told me something interesting while I was waiting on you," Sam said conversationally as they started across the vast hospital parking lot. "Said the psych ward has a ghost. See anything?"

_Dude, you are _not_ going to get me back in there five fucking minutes after I got out, I don't care if it's ol__'__ Yellow Eyes taking up residence._ "Not a sign."

"Room 2021?"

_Huh?_ That was the room across the hall from his. Ghost Girl's room.

"It only acts up sometimes," Sam went on as they reached the car. "Room stays about fifty degrees, no matter what they do. Sometimes the other patients see her—"

"Her?" Oh, no. No, no, _no_. He had _not_ been so out of it that he'd missed a ghost. Not to mention, he'd seen her eating! Ghosts didn't eat!

Sam nodded as he unlocked the trunk, allowing Dean to toss his bag inside. "About ten years back, they had a suicidal involuntary. Turns out that whatever they did here made her _worse_. Soon as she got out, she killed herself. Ever since... Never _does_ anything, though. Most patients who see her even say she _helped_. Oh, and she throws stuff at the therapists. Or insults them."

Like telling them their family tree didn't fork.

"Dean?" Sam was giving him a look. "Did you—"

"Was there anything else?"

"Well, there was the _interesting_ stuff. Like how she tends to show up when they have a _very_ reluctant involuntary."

"Don't you _even_—"

"She blends in. Sometimes even the nurses mistake her for a patient. And whenever she shows up, it lasts for about three days, then stops. At least for awhile."

Involuntary commitment. Seventy-two hours. Three days.

"They can tell she's around when people start using the words _suicidal ideation_. Especially people who—well, people who wouldn't know those words."

Dean sighed. "Sam, whatever you're trying to say, say it."

"The shrink said that was how you kept phrasing it. Something you want to tell me?"

Dean glanced across the parking lot. There was Ghost Girl, walking out of the hospital—yeah, her three days were about up; she'd come in while he was sleeping off the drugs. She walked nonchalantly into traffic and through a tan Trailblazer, following a sidewalk that had undoubtedly been torn up years ago.

"Dean?"

"Nothing. It's nothing." He opened the driver's door. "Okay. Maybe I saw her. I thought she was a patient. Gimme the keys."

"Maybe I should—"

"Keys, Sammy."

Sam frowned, but tossed him the keys. "Are we going after—"

"No. She's not hurting anybody. Leave her alone."

Sam's jaw dropped. "Dean. It _throws things_ at the therapists. It could—"

"I was in there," Dean said sharply, "you weren't. Believe me, those therapists deserve everything that gets thrown at them. Especially that morning-session bitch."

Sam stared at him. "Dude, you need help. Seriously."

Dean grinned. "Like I've never heard _that_ before."

"We can't just _leave_ a _ghost_—"

"People said she helped them, right?" Sam nodded. He looked confused. "You're the one who says we kill _evil_ things, not just supernatural things. She's not hurting anybody."

"But _Dean_—"

"There's more dangerous stuff out there. Besides, right now?" He climbed in, ran his hands over the familiar smoothness of the steering wheel. God, he'd missed his car. "I'm ready to throw myself off the decaf wagon." He rummaged through the tapes for something loud and fast. "Get in the car before I leave your ass here."

Ghost Girl was standing on the corner where the hospital driveway met the road. She waved as Dean pulled the Impala out into traffic, then vanished.

It was the first time he'd seen her smile.

**_the end  
_**


End file.
